


I'll Be Yours

by startwithsparks



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drug Use, Drugged Sex, F/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-12
Updated: 2013-09-12
Packaged: 2017-12-26 08:59:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/964058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/startwithsparks/pseuds/startwithsparks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a rhythm on the streets, a structure integral to the survival of all its inhabitants, and when something shakes up that routine, it can have unexpected results.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Be Yours

His hands were rough where they wrapped around her wrists, covered in the kind of thick calluses of a man who did heavy labor for a living. She could feel the skin of his fingers and palms chafing against her skin as he pumped into her, sporadic and impulsive. They would be red when he finished, which didn't seem like it would be much longer, but at least they wouldn't bruise. Bruises were bad for business, at least the ones that were immediately visible. In the dingy light of her motel room, it was hard to tell bruises and smudges from unkind shadows playing across the hollows and valleys of her body. She didn't worry about how she looked in the shadows as much as she did in the harsh yellow glow of streetlights or technicolor neon. There the light showed every blemish like a stamp of self-destruction.

But at least she was in better shape than most of the other girls on her stroll. Her skin was pale and her eyes were rimmed with three days of spent eyeliner and sleepless nights, but her mouth was still warm and pink, her hands spindly thin but spotless, and though her body seemed to hang on jagged bones, she'd managed to avoid any temptation that might mar and disintegrate her flesh. She was doing better than most.

The man's stuttering thrusts became suddenly more abrupt and uneven, and Arya turned her head to the side to glance at the clock on the bedside table. 12:52. He buried his face in the curve of her neck and let loose a stifled grunt, body heaving sweaty and spent to the side. She dragged the pillow out from under her hips and shoved it under her head, her muscles protesting as she stretched her legs out. It wasn't more than a breath later before the man had rolled off the other side of the bed and stumbled towards the bathroom. The air vent whirred to life and a slice of yellow light flooded the room before the bathroom door clicked shut behind him.

She turned onto her side and pushed herself up, fumbling in the dusty half-dark for a pack of cigarettes near the clock. The flick of her lighter illuminated the room in all its sad glory, and she inhaled a sharp breath of nicotine before the light sputtered out again. She cracked her neck, arched her feet against the old shag carpet until her ankles and knees both popped, and breathed a soft groan. Then once again the room was bathed in light, a shuffle of fabric behind her, the clatter of a belt buckle, and the tell-tale sound of leather neatly unfolding and folding again. The man's shadow fell across her and he held out a wad of cash, but she nodded to the bed, and he tossed it down next to her before letting himself out.

Arya pressed the cigarette between her lips and reached over for the cash. The rumpled bills were folded around a tiny blue baggie, two tabs of Ecstasy nestled snugly inside. One was pale, with a star embossed on it, while the other was lipstick pink with a heart. She palmed the tabs and tossed the cash on the table, shoving herself up from the bed to pad, naked, towards the bathroom.

She clicked the light off before she even stepped inside, nudged the toilet seat down with her foot, and dropped down on it. She blindly flicked her ash in the sink and peeled open the baggie in her palm. She tapped one of the tabs into her palm, the blue one, as far as she could tell by the light of her cigarette, and stuck it snugly under her tongue. Then she sealed the baggie up again and tucked it between the towels on the back of the toilet. There was still half a bag of weed shoved in there, but she'd need that for the morning, if the rest of the night went in her favor.

Once she finished, cigarette butt smoldering in the sink, she picked up her scattered clothes and dragged them back on in the dark. Everything hung loose on her, her jeans sagged a bit at the thighs and her shirt fluttered hopelessly at her hips, but clothes were - and always had been - at the bottom of her list of priorities. She was pretty sure that she had been wearing this shirt since high school.

She shoved the cash from her last job into one pocket, her room key and ID in the other, and snatched her cigarettes from the table, then stepped into her shoes and out into the heavy summer night. The motel was a line of dim lights and partially ajar doors, a sign glowing high above a half-full parking lot. The second R in Harren had flickered and fizzled out two nights ago, and no one had fixed it yet. Likely it would go another month before anyone bothered to. It took two months to fix the L in Motel when it went out last winter. Arya leaned against the door to her room for a moment, lighting another cigarette before shoving the pack and lighter into the pocket with her cash. Then she was out, across the desolate parking lot, towards the labyrinth of bars and all-night restaurants that she often lingered near.

To anyone who didn't know better, she looked like any other person, and that was the trick. The girls that got hauled in were the ones who were out there looking like they had something to sell. She kept her head down and kept to the dark corners, stepping out only when someone glanced at her too long, too curiously. She was a ghost there, no one ever saw her unless they were looking for her. Staying out of jail was more lucrative than going hard after every prospective John, she'd learned that fast, and she'd always had a mind for playing the system. This was just another tool she had at her disposal, the cash box between her legs, and if she was being honest with herself it was still better than the alternative of being some desperate 9-to-5 wage slave; or worse, chasing a dream that she didn't have any hope of ever catching. She'd seen too many people fall prey to those kinds of pipe dreams. At least she could say she was living well within reality. It might not have been flashing lights and glamour, but reality rarely was, even for the people who had grasped that elusive whisper of success.

The brick wall behind her bit through her thin teeshirt into her shoulders as she leaned against it, feet crossed at the ankle, cigarette dangling momentarily at her side. A half a block down there was a bar popular with the local college boys, who spilled drunk and staggering onto the sidewalk at sporadic intervals. She had a Friday night regular, who always seemed to stumble into her bed around 2:30 in the morning, his breath heavily scented with whiskey, his body hard, and his mouth hungry. He told her his name once, but she'd made the point to forget it as soon as it passed his lips. Still, he knew hers - he asked for her if she wasn't there waiting for him - and he was one of the few she would kiss without feeling the cloying need to wash her mouth out afterwards. He was a decent guy, too decent for her, but his skin always felt like there was some private forge inside of him, and she enjoyed that.

It was a bit too early for her after-hours prince charming, though - and Arya thought she could maybe get one more gig in before he met her. She took another heavy drag off her cigarette and flicked the ash into the breeze, scuffing the sole of her shoe against the sidewalk. On her other side, a pub door swung open and the raucous sound of laughter and loud music washed into the street, as a man, laughing loudly, was swept out with it. He was still grinning a wide, warm smile when the door swung closed behind him, leaving him to fish through his front pocket for a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He pressed one, all black paper and a thin sliver of white, between his lips and flicked his lighter, but it merely sparked and fizzled out again. Another flick, another spark. He shook it futilely and tried again - click, spark, darkness. Grumbling to himself, he looked at his cigarette as if it were responsible for the lighter's failure, and was about to turn back towards the pub when he saw her.

"Could a girl spare a light?" he asked, his voice dripping with some indistinguishable accent.

She pulled out her lighter and took a few steps towards him, flicking it and cupping her hand around the flame to keep it from dancing. He leaned over it, the glow momentarily illuminating his startlingly bright blue eyes. Somewhat taken aback, the flame flickered and went out, but he'd already taken in his first heavy drag - the scent of cloves wafting by her - and pulled away.

"Thank you," he nodded softly, and she nodded back, pressing against the wall again. She could feel him staring at her, a prickle of warm attention sliding along the curve of her neck. "Waiting for someone?" he finally asked.

She shook her head. "Not really..." She could be waiting for him if he wasn't completely oblivious to the way this game was played, but she had never been so blunt as to come out and say it. That was how girls got in trouble out here.

He wet his lips and pressed the cigarette to his mouth again. There was another slow burn from the tip of the cherry, bright, but dimmed slowly as he breathed a thin line of smoke through his nose. "Working?"

She nodded, a subtle movement, but he was watching for it.

He hummed faintly, "A girl is too pretty for that..."

"I've heard that before," she retorted.

He glanced back with a shrug, "It isn't a line."

She had a hard time believing that. It was always a line, especially when they said it wasn't. Men, particularly drunk men, weren't an overly complicated sort and no matter how often they thought they'd come up with some novel way to lure in girls, the game was always the same. The only way to not fall victim to it was to know how to play. She dragged a hand through her hair and turned, her shoulder jutting into the wall, smoke curling past her face and dissipating in the breeze.

He flicked his ash and watched her, eyes dragging down over her body briefly. "A girl could make a friend..." he murmured.

"Arry," she replied, hoping he wouldn't offer her his name in return. Some did out of politeness, but she always found it more awkward. She preferred they were little more than a face until the morning blurred even that from her memory.

But instead, he quirked a crooked smile at her and held out his hand, "Well then, Arry..."

He seemed harmless enough, and though her gut twist when he drew nearer to her, it wasn't the kind of impulse that often told her to take off in the other direction as quickly as possible. It was some kind of vague magnetism instead, and while she didn't like the feeling at all, it wasn't something that gave her cause to refuse. A job was a job, all money was green no matter whose pocket it came out of; his was as good as any.

She nodded again, this time down the street, "I've got a room, if you want to tell your friends you're going."

He glanced back at the pub and shrugged, "There's no need."

She wasn't going to question it, she flicked her spent cigarette butt in the street and exhaled slowly, coming forward to walk next to him. He followed her wordlessly, though from time to time she could feel the prickle of his gaze edge up the back of her neck or shiver down her spine, just enough to give her a bit of a chill. She tried her hardest to tamp down the sensation, as persistent as it was, trying to cast it off to the chemicals steadily working their way through her body.

Maybe it wasn't her best idea to slip a tab before going out again, but she'd wanted to feel something, and now it seemed like she felt too much of everything. For once it felt like pure chemical sliding through her bloodstream; a heady, intoxicating feeling. Even the gentle murmur of wind against her cheek made her feel a little lighter, and hopefully that meant this job would be a little more pleasant to get through. She had the occasional moment of bliss in her work, and if the rest of him was as smooth as his voice, she felt as though this could be one of those fleeting moments as well.

He didn't mind the darkness of her hotel room, or even the faintly damp smell of humidity that pervaded every room of the motel. He simply toed off his shoes and tugged his shirt over his head, sliding his hands around her narrow waist to draw her forward. She kicked her own shoes to the side and squirmed out of her jeans with a well-practiced grace, hands finding her way to the front of his pants.

"What do you want?" she murmured, flicking his fly open.

He smirked, "You."

"I don't think you could afford all of me," she retorted, and there was some truth tangled between her words.

His hand grazed her neck, thumb sliding up under her jaw to tip her head up. His lips dragged warm against her jagged jawline, teeth scraping faintly across her pulse. "I'm sure I could."

For some reason that sent another shiver along her spine, the feel of his breath on her neck and the words murmured in her ear. His other hand went for his pocket, and slid out his wallet. He pulled back long enough to peel it open and thumb through the bills inside. His fingers drew three well-worn $100 bills from inside and, holding them elegantly between his first and middle fingers, he offered them to her. Arya dragged her lower lip between her teeth, then snatched the bills from his hand.

"That'll get you close," she said, sliding the money between the cellophane and cardboard of her cigarette pack.

He moved slowly towards her, almost stalking her, his fingers finding the edge of her shirt in the dim glow of the window. He tugged it off over her head and cast it away, dragging his fingers down the center of her chest. Her flesh prickled in the wake of his touch, another dizzying flush of chemicals pumping into her brain. But just as she started to sink down on the edge of the bed, her fingers at his half-undone fly again, he gently nudged her hand away and slid down with her. He was on his knees as the edge of the bed before she realized what he was doing, and then her gut twist a little tighter. It wasn't so much that she disliked this part, but she knew the taste of latex still lingered there, and it was hard to tell whether he was the kind of guy who enjoyed knowing he wasn't the first person who'd between her legs tonight, or if he would get angry knowing that something he'd paid so much for had been so recently used. While his smirk didn't soothe all her anxieties, it certainly cast doubt on them, and Arya reluctantly dropped back onto her elbows as pressed himself between her legs.

His mouth was almost startlingly warm on her, breath igniting a flurry of nervous response, making her thigh twitch faintly. She bit down on her lip and watched, his eerie gaze fixed on her face as his mouth closed in on her. He draped her legs over his shoulders and pinned her hips to the bed, tongue expertly seeking out places that others had never bothered to find before. He teased relentlessly, the movements only heightened by the drugs she'd taken and the stifling heat of the room. She had no choice but to drop back onto the bed, chest heaving, her fingers sliding down to tangle in his short hair, everything a delirious blur of tension twisting and untwisting inside her. Her hips twitched and her toes curled, but every time she felt on the brink of shuddering over the edge, her body betrayed her by slinking back down into an easy lull. She didn't know what was doing it - whether it was her own anxiety, the Ecstasy playing tricks on her, or if he was trying to drive her mad.

She never did get an answer. On the edge of a low, rough moan, he pulled back and left her body reeling for completion. Arya slumped back against the bed, her legs dropping off his shoulders, and nudged at his side with her foot. She heard him laugh, but she also heard the crumple of a condom wrapper as he tore it open. She shifted her hips to brace her feet against the edge of the bed, but he shook his head - a barely perceptible move - and held his hand out for her. He pulled her to her feet and sat down in her place, drawing her forward into his lap.

His hands settled easily on her hips as she straddled him, thumbs pressing at the shallow valleys between her hipbones, and slowly dragged her down onto him. She braced her hands on his shoulders slowly rolling her hips. He let her move without direction, without hindering her, sucking in sharp breaths through his teeth and moaning softly into the curve of her neck. He held back nothing, so she didn't either, keeping her movements simple but precise. The same way his mouth knew exactly how to wring those reluctant moans from her, her body knew what it took to draw the same reaction from him. It wasn't just experience at play either, but a simple talent she'd learned early and chose to capitalize on. Everyone had their talents, and her connection with her body and her intuition was hers. Maybe she could have expressed it in a more productive way, but there was a power in being able to make a fully-grown man tremble and swear, in watching him try so hard to hold back that sweat slicked his brow and his broad shoulders.

He held her against his chest while she moved, nipping faintly at her throat, his lips greedy on her neck, tugging raspy gasps and faint grunts from her as well. And when his hands roamed, his fingers sought out the most sensitive parts of her, teasing her breasts or sliding down between her legs. It only made her hips jerk anxiously towards his hands, trying to find the right spot to, maybe, get a little something for herself out of this. There were so few opportunities for pleasure that when they presented themselves she felt the need to grasp them viciously and unrelenting. Her nails dug into his skin, which only made him moan louder, tug her closer, and grip her shoulders tighter to press as deep into her as he could.

The shudder came on her unexpectedly, rushing through her body and pulling a strangled moan from her. His fingers were on her again, thumb deft between her legs, and all he needed to do was hit the right spot once and she crumbled against his chest, her body heaving and twitching as he jerked up into her, finally taking what he'd come for only after she was already breathless and panting against him.

The only reason she moved to peel herself away from him was because it was too damn hot to stay like that, and she was already overheated. Even the still air across her sweat-damp body felt good, though. Arya slid back onto the bed, legs dangling off the end, and stared at the ceiling. Her nerves slowly crawled their way towards bliss, each rough beat of her heart sending another flood of ease and warmth to her brain. He watched her for a while, after he'd tugged the condom off and tossed it in the trash with the wrapper, and only rose from the bed once her breathing had calmed to a steady rhythm. He wasn't quick about getting dressed, and she didn't really care. The light from the motel sign cast shadows across his bare chest, a thin trail of hair dipping down beneath the waist of his jeans. When he turned to pick his shirt up, she caught a tattoo poised between his shoulderblades, framed by the angry red scratches from her nails. The two faces of Janus looked to the right and left, both wide-eyed and beseeching.

Arya shoved herself up to sit, resting back against the headboard. She still felt sticky and warm, but she was going to have to get up to shower regardless - the clock next to her showed a glowing red 2:10.

She watched him slide back into his shoes and drag a hand through his hair, sticking it neatly back in place. Then, as his hand lingered on the doorknob, glanced briefly back at her. He looked like he wanted to say something, but instead he tugged the door open and started to leave.

"Hey," she called, crossing her legs on the bed in front of her. He paused at the doorway and looked back at her, waiting. "What's your name?"

He smirked, "Jaqen," he said, "H'ghar."

She quirked an eyebrow as the door shut behind him; it was too weird not to be his real name.


End file.
